


Bloody Chambers in Haunted Mansions.

by LadyWinnelynPooh



Category: Phantom of the Opera (2004)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, F/M, Gothic, Gothic Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:42:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23296432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyWinnelynPooh/pseuds/LadyWinnelynPooh
Summary: A series of gothic novellas for my favorite Poto ships.First up, R/C in a Flowers in the Attic-inspired au.
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera/Meg Giry, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé, Raoul de Chagny/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

Welcome to a series of gothic novella retellings, featuring the characters of Poto.


	2. Chapter 2

**Really wanted to write Gothic aus for my favorite Poto ships, and I suppose this one is what comes of reading a lot of Gothic novels and watching a lot of Tim Burton movies.**

* * *

Our father was dead. Our horrible father was dead. And yet, I knew Christine would never recover from the terrible events. Because she never had. You see, we had never left our mansion after that terrible night. Because my Christine had killed our father herself, to save me. She had taken a pistol and shot the monster in the head, and then freed me from the rope, holding me to her heart. I hadn't realized at the moment that Christine's mind had snapped, and she had gone as mad as the man she'd killed.

When little Meg, Christine's ladies' maid, had found us, and embraced Christine in relief, she had looked at me, and I'd seen tears in her eyes, as she had realized herself what happened. Christine had refused to leave after that. She'd begged me, she had. Begged to marry me here, asked that we never go outside, and I'd agreed, if it would make her happy. So Meg and her mother Madame Giry had been the only witnesses to the marriage, and I'd asked if they would visit from time to time. Christine smiled, and said, ''What a wonderful idea.''

Then came the wedding night. The night I realized the sweet, gentle girl that I had loved would never come back, that she was gone forever. It started with a kiss, one, then two, then three. It was normal enough. Then, when I pulled away, Christine took a knife and handed it to me, asking me to cut the dress open. For a moment, there was a look in her eyes, one that told me to ruin the dress the monster had made for her to wear, but that look was quickly gone.

So I took the knife, and moving to the back of my beloved, slit the laces and slipped the dress off her shoulders, and Christine quickly turned and kissed me again, throwing her arms about my neck much as she had on the rooftop, hard enough to topple me to the floor. Her hands were small and dainty, but they were fast, and soon had my shirt unbuttoned, and I wrapped my arms about her waist. We kissed passionately for a few moments, then I pulled away, gasping.

''Are you alright?''

''I'm fine, Christine. Could you stand up, please? I must get your corset off. If I rip it off, I shall hurt you.'' I told her, and she acquiesced to my request, standing up, I quickly unlaced her tight corset, and she took in a long, deep breath.

''At least he will no longer harm us anymore.'' was all she said, before her hands went to my trousers and began unbuttoning them. But I seem to be getting ahead of myself. Such is the nature of a man on his wedding night with the girl he loves. I will, of course, start from the beginning. For it is at the beginning that the story must be told. We will both tell it, my Christine and I. Ladies first, dear.

* * *

My name is Christine. Christine Destler. I was born on October 13, 1854. It is now October 16, 1873, and I have just turned 18. My father, Erik Destler, was a very reclusive man. I suppose you could call him a hermit. My Mama was Theodorine Destler, _nee_ Hemlock. She died when I was merely 5 years old. I barely knew her, of course. One cannot know one's own mother if she dies when you are just five years old. I knew my father **very** well, of course. Far too well. He was always wandering around my room, why at first I did not know, but later, I did.

I was not more then 10 years old when I was told by my governess, Madame Marceline Giry, who had come from France several years ago that my father was to remarry. I was terribly confused at first. Why should my father, Papa, as I called him at the time, need to marry again? He had me, and I was all that he needed.

Yet, Madame Giry explained to me that I could not be Papa's heir, and Papa would want me to be married off. Papa needed a male heir, which I found incredibly humiliating, as I had been told by my Mama that I would be a heiress, beautiful, elegant, and graceful, with a voice like an angel. Papa had made my voice so. He taught me himself, you see. And so my voice was more beautiful, and rich, and angelic then any other tutor could make it.

I suppose I was selfish when I was younger. I wanted my Papa all to myself. I did not wish to share him with a new mother and new siblings. Still, the marriage was to go ahead. The lady in question was Jaccqueline de Chagny, a wealthy heiress, something like what I should have become. She had one son from her first marriage, a young boy no more then four years older then me, and who I knew I would dislike greatly, no matter how nice or charming he was.

So it was when I _actually_ met my future stepmother and stepbrother that I was quite surprised.

Jaccqueline was indeed elegant, and terribly beautiful. She was slender, like a swan, with a long, elegant neck and gorgeous soft dark hair braided and pinned up neatly. Her eyes were large and the deep ebony of an onyx, and her dress was of a sort of checkered silk, coloured teal with narrow sleeves and a pleated train.

When she was introduced to me, she smiled and kneeled down, and said, ''It's a pleasure to meet you. I hope we can all be a happy family together.'' Her voice was kind, with a gentle French accent, I thought. I have an ear for voices and can often tell what someone is like merely by listening to the voice. Jaccqueline's voice was full of kindness, as I have just mentioned, and I could tell it was not fake.

I replied politely in perfect French, to show her that I was not unintelligent, if she did think I was, '' _C'est un plaisir de vous accueillir ici, Madame de Chagny._ '' And I dropped a perfect curtsey. Jaccqueline smiled, and standing up, said to my father, ''You did not tell me your daughter was so enchanting!''

Papa patted my brown hair, and thanked her profusely.

Then there was my stepbrother, Raoul. At first I thought he must be a servant boy, for he looked nothing like Jaccqueline herself. He was fair-haired and blue-eyed, much like my ladies' maid Marguerite Giry, or Meg, as we (by which I mean her mother and I) called her. But there was a sort of nobleness and kindness to his features that made me want to like him, even though I had sworn not to. He smiled, and held out his hand. Hesitantly, I took it, and he raised it to his mouth, and kissed it. In many of the stories that my father told me, knights often did that to the princesses they rescued. I suppose it was a polite gesture, but still, I did not want to like him, no matter how likable he was.

Papa greeted the newcomers, and bid them come inside, and I followed.

* * *

When it came time for dinner, Jaccqueline came in, dressed charmingly in a gown of a pretty pale green that she said was called a gendarme green, all in silk, and flounces of white silk fluttering down the back, the neck cut round and low on the shoulders. Her hair was half braided up now, and the other half was in curls flowing down her back. She looked like a princess, I thought.

''How lovely you look.'' she said to me, admiring my white flounced dress with belled sleeves and high neck, my hair let loose.

''Thank you.'' I said.

''You spoke French to me earlier; how much of it do you speak?''

''Enough to converse in. Mama was American; my Papa is French. He spoke English around my Mama and I, and hired a governess from France for me.'' I replied to her.

''I will say something in French, to test you, and I want you to tell me the answer '' she told me, and then said, '' _On ne peut pas choisir qui ils aiment.''_

''One cannot choose who they love.'' I translated, and she clapped her hands.

''Your governess has taught you well. What about this? _J'ai parcouru un long chemin et j'espere etre heureux ici._ ''

''I have come a long way, and I hope to be happy here.'' I said, and remarked, ''I hope you will be happy here,'' for try as I may, it was impossible to dislike her. She was very nice.

* * *

At dinner, we were very silent, as was our custom. I wished Meg could be here, but alas, she, being a lady's maid, took her meals with the servants. My new stepbrother ate his food as quietly as I did, and often glanced at his mother, as if he wished to say something.

Finally, he spoke. ''Do you play, Mr Destler? For I noticed an organ in the corner as I came in.''

Papa smiled in delight. Oh, how he loved to play the old thing! ''I do, my boy. Perhaps, if your mother wishes it, I could play after dinner.''

Jaccqueline nodded. ''I should love to hear you play.''

''Then it is settled.'' Papa said, and after dinner, he did play on the instrument. Papa wrote his own compositions, and that night he played one of them, a passionate song called ''Only Us.'' It was one of my favorites, and I could not help humming along. My stepbrother looked at me, but what he thought I did not know, as he was one of those people that were capable of hiding their feelings.

Papa tucked me into bed, as was his custom, and five days later, he and Jaccqueline were married.

* * *

**Translation.**

_C'est un plaisir de vous accueillir ici: **It's a pleasure to have you here.**_

_**Jaccqueline is portrayed by Winona Ryder.** _


	3. Chapter 3

**Here is part 2 of my Crimson Peak/Flowers in the Attic au for Poto.**

* * *

I did not know what to think of my new stepfather and stepsister. Christine seemed as though she did not trust me, and her father was kind, and very secretive. Yet still, I wished to feel at home here.

My new stepfather was extremely talented at music, as I saw that first night at dinner, and on the wedding day, he played one of Mozart's sonatas before retiring to bed with my mother. I could hear nothing from him, only my mother's moans. Why did women do that, I wondered? Perhaps it was because they felt pleasure.

After the wedding, days passed before I got up the courage to talk to my stepsister. She was finishing her morning toilette, dressed in a gray frock that made her look plain, hair pulled back with a bow. Her maid saw me, curtseyed, and started to leave the room.

''No, Meg, don't. I don't want to be left alone with a stranger.'' she said, and it felt like I had been hit in the chest. _A stranger._ That was how she thought of me. From what I had heard of the servants' conversations, I gathered that she had grown up expecting to be an heiress to Destler Manor. And then I'd come and taken-no, _stolen_ \- her place. I could only imagine what else she thought of me.

''It's alright. I can go if you wish.'' I told her. Her maid, a slim thing with blonde hair and blue eyes, looked a little relieved. I suppose she didn't like me either.

''No, I would like you to stay- brother.'' she said to me, and it obviously took her a great deal of courage to call me that. I nodded, stood aside to let her maid leave the room, and walked over to her. She stood up from the chair, coming to stand in front of me. For a girl of ten, she was tall, reaching to my shoulder. ''I hope you were not awakened by the noise made last night.'' she continued.

''No, I was not. Were you?''

''Yes, very much so.'' she replied, making a face so amusing, I couldn't help but laugh. ''Stop that!'' she said quite abruptly, and I did.

She went to her writing-table, and took a book from there. ''Do you like to read?'' she asked.

''Yes. My favorite book's Les Miserables.'' I said, and she smiled.

''My favorite is Hans Christian Andersen's fairytales. They're so beautiful.'' And so we sat and she read to me, and I to her.

* * *

Life with my stepmother was not as terrible as I'd thought it'd be, and I grew to enjoy Raoul's company. We bonded over books, and sometimes Meg would join us. She had an eye for pranks, and it was great fun to put salt in the sugar bowl and sugar in the salt bowl, sing loudly out of key whenever Papa was composing in my room-he always liked my room. He thought it was very quiet, and the quietness was just what he needed to compose- and bring the chickens into the house to let them squawk and screech.

When I was three-and-ten, and Raoul seven-and-ten, my life changed again. Papa was gravely injured in a fire that broke out accidentally in his quarters, and half his face was horribly disfigured.

The doctor, when he came out, said to Jaccqueline, ''I'm so sorry, Mrs Destler. He'll have to wear a mask from now on.'' My stepmother gasped, hands flying to her mouth in shock.

''Oh, no.'' There was great sadness in her voice, as I do believe she had come to love him over the past three years. I hurried to her side to comfort her.

''Do not worry, at least he is alive.'' I reassured her. Jaccqueline smiled in relief, and embraced me.

I turned, then, to look at Raoul, who had grown over the course of three years. He was no longer the slim, timid boy I had met, and feared that he would take my place as heir and in my father's heart. He was handsome now, and my heart did skip a bit when I saw him. Still golden-haired and blue-eyed, his features had matured, and he was a good half a head taller than me.

He smiled sadly at me, and came to embrace his mother. ''Don't worry, Mama. I am sure Mr Destler will be fine.''

But Papa was not fine, and it was from this day forth that I began to call him Father.

* * *

The first incident with my father started when Jaccqueline actually saw what had happened to my father's face. She screamed and screamed, and at first I did not know why, but when I saw my father's face, I knew.

His skin was terribly scarred all over his face, and some parts had been burned so badly, there was no skin, and you could see his bones. A good deal of his hair had been burnt off as well, and the skin remaining was bright red.

It was awful. I did not scream, although I thought I would, and even held my father to my heart, in an attempt to make him think I did not fear him.

But I did.

My father slapped Jaccqueline across the face, and the rest of us soon learned that we had to treat him like nothing had happened to my father's face. Especially Raoul, Meg, and I. Madame Giry grew used to it, and began helping my father with the mask, made of white porcelain that covered his face.

Father's temperament grew more and more irritable, and he soon grew to hate Raoul's presence in the house. He even tried to prevent him from speaking to me or being alone with me. What did he think? Raoul was nothing more then a friend and stepbrother. Why did he hate him so, I wondered? Why?

It only grew worser, as Father locked himself in his room, writing his compositions. He refused to even talk to Raoul, and Jaccqueline began, strangely, coughing blood. One evening, after a particularly terrible coughing spell, Meg whispered to me, ''I think your father is poisoning her tea.''

''How can you be sure, Meg?''

''I'm not. I just know.'' Meg tucked a lock of golden hair underneath her white, frilled cap, and picked up the tea tray, heading into the kitchen. I sighed, and turned to my painting, it depicting a half-finished picture of a young woman sitting in a garden, surrounded by roses.

Raoul came in, and sat down next to me. Turning to his mother, the only word he spoke was ''Mama?'' She nodded, and stood up, leaving the room. Raoul moved closer to me, looking at my easel.

''It's good.''

''Thank you.'' I replied, and he smiled, moving even closer, until his knee brushed my skirts.

''Is that a new frock? I like it.'' he reached out with his hand, touching my sleeve of shot moire silk, the color of violets, with an elegant bustle, and purple, gold, and navy silk thread embroidery on the princess-cut bodice. The sleeves were tight till my elbow, where they ended with a lace frill and a tailored silk bow.

The dress was a gift from Father for my birthday, as I'd just turned four-and-ten.

His hand on my arm sent jolts of heat through me, as he softly petted the fabric, and ran his large hand down to my small one, taking it and kissing it, much like what he had done four years earlier. We were older now, and we should know better. If Father were to see, he would kill Raoul, I feared, because his mind had unraveled that much. He seemed to think, Meg told me, that Raoul and I were-how did she put it? Oh, yes. "Having an affair.''

But we were not!

* * *

Christine was my other half, my heart, my mind. She always was. And she was beautiful and delicate as a rose. I worried for her health, as her father refused to let her see the sun. He seemed to have developed a hatred for it. A hatred for any form of light, and a love for the dark. The house was shrouded in darkness most of the time, with candles providing the only light. Whenever he descended from his room, we had to turn off the gaslamps and light candles, or else he would begin yelling and knock them over.

At fourteen years, she was growing into a beauty, and it was all I could do to keep my eyes off her when her father was around. It was all I could do not to talk to her.

So one day, when her father was out of the house on business, I took the chance to spend some time with her. She had a new frock now, I noted. It suited her. All purple moire with light lace and bow trimmings, her dark, curly hair swept back on the sides with a large purple silk ribbon bow, much like the bows her maid Meg was accustomed to wearing when she didn't wear her maid's cap.

She had developed a talent for painting, and that was what she was working on now. So I sat down beside her, and rested my hand on her arm, moving it down to her delicate hand, and kissed it. When my eyes met hers, she trembled, large chocolate brown eyes holding a look of fright.

''No. Don't.'' Even her voice was frightened, and I supposed she was worried her father would walk in on us.

''Christine, what are you afraid of?'' I asked. ''There is nothing wrong in it. We are not related by blood, merely by marriage.''

''I know.''she said, visibly relaxing. ''And you feel it too? The pull, the ache, the need?''

I hesitated, before replying, ''I do. And I cannot help it.'' And with that, I drew her to me and crushed my mouth against hers, wanting, needing desperately. At first, Christine hesitated, but soon I could feel the press of her mouth against mine, and I pressed my hands to her face.

If we were caught by her father, it would be the end of us, yet still we did not care.

Her own hands wound into my hair, and I let one hand fall to wrap around her dainty waist.

* * *

He took me into his arms and kissed me, and I was thrilled, yet terrified. Thrilled because I had just received my first kiss, terrified of what Father would do if he caught us. And yet- the kiss was everything I had ever dreamed of! Warm and beautiful and loving, it was like the kiss the prince might give the princess in the fairytales.

I moved onto his lap, and we kissed for a while, then broke away, panting. Raoul rested his forehead on mine, gently. ''If I could,'' he whispered, ''I'd kiss you all the time, and your father couldn't stop us.''

''If only we could leave.'' I said to him, straightening my skirts where they had been crumpled being pressed to his trousers. Raoul smiled.

''If only we could.''


	4. Chapter 4

It was hard, not being able to do anything for Christine. She was my best friend, and I could see she was unhappy. So I let Raoul see her, talk to her, even though her father had forbidden it. And as time passed, I could see them become closer and closer. I was only a maid; what else could I do? Nothing. Little Meg Giry, everyone called me. But I was not little any longer, and as Mrs Destler grew weaker and weaker, I worried for my friends.

Poor Mrs Destler. It had seemed to her at first that she had married a genius, but now that genius was slowly turning into madness, and no one knew when the madness would end. And all we servants could do was watch. All we could do was watch and wait for it all to stop.

And so it did, when one day, Mrs Destler fainted, falling to the floor. Christine and Raoul hurried to get the doctor, but by the time they'd returned, she was practically hanging by a thread. Maman told me to go inform the master, and so I did, hurrying up to his locked room. I knocked on the door. ''Mr Destler?''

''What is it now?'' he asked angrily, and I could hear him sighing in annoyance.

''It's your wife, Mr Destler. She's close to dying. Won't you come down and say goodbye to her before she goes?'' Of course, I knew the answer would be no, for he would be responsible for her demise. I hadn't told Christine this, but I'd seen him put something in Mrs Destler's tea. I had told her, though, that I felt her father was poisoning her stepmother's tea.

''Is Christine downstairs?''

I nodded, although he couldn't see. ''Yes.''

''Good. She can say goodbye for me.'' I turned and started to walk away. ''Oh, and Miss Giry, don't interrupt me again, or I shall strangle you in your sleep.'' I gasped, a small sound in my throat, and hurried down the stairs.

Christine came to meet me. ''Well? Will Father come?''

I shook my head. _No._

The poor girl looked so stricken that it was all I could do to not run up the stairs and demand that Mr Destler come down stairs, of not for his wife, then for his daughter. But I merely reached out my arms and embraced her.

Five minutes later, Mrs Destler died, and I embraced each of my friends as they wept in turn.

* * *

Days seemed to blend into months, months to years. Father never let us leave the house, save to take a quick walk in the garden outside. I missed my stepmother greatly, and I knew Raoul missed his mother too. We took comfort in each other, at least. It was the least we could do. Quick embraces, murmured words, all the sort of thing brothers and sisters did. We chose to ignore the kiss we'd shared, but we did not forget. How could we?

Soon, I was seven-and-ten, and Raoul was twenty-one, practically a man. And I was old enough for marriage. So I said one day to Father, when he had come downstairs to take a cup of tea, ''Father, I am old enough for marriage. Why don't you let me attend a few balls, and let me meet a husband?''

''Oh, no, dear.'' he said, and I thought that I saw a flicker of a cruel smile pass across his face. ''Those young men out there will surely take advantage of you, young and innocent as you are. I shall pick for you.''

''Really? Oh, that's very nice of you.'' I replied, and smiled. ''What are you writing?'' I asked Father curiously, stealing a glance at the papers he had brought with him down-stairs.

''A opera. It shall be called Don Juan Triumphant. And the public shall adore it.''

I was a little worried at his words, for he had never written an opera before. He didn't even know if it would succeed! How could he think it would?

But he had given his promise to find me a husband, and so I waited.

By Christmas, I was waiting still.

* * *

On Christmas morning, I came into Christine's room to help her get dressed, and found her already out of bed, wrapped in her white lace and silk dressing gown, dark curls down her back.

''Good morning and Merry Christmas, Christine.'' I said to her, and she turned, giving me a slight smile.

''The same to you, Meg.''

I went over to her large wooden wardrobe, and picked out a very pretty Christmas frock for her to wear. All red silk and green tulle, with trimming of Brussels lace and candy-striped ribbon. ''Here, wear this.''

''What's the use of wearing pretty things if no one else sees them besides Father, you, Madame Giry, and the servants? How I wish Father would throw a ball. If not so I can find a husband, at least to let me meet people, make friends of my own standing. Not that I don't consider you a friend, of course, dearest Meg.'' she added quickly.

''Well, Maman told me that she is trying to convince your father to throw a ball on New Year's, so I do believe that there's some hope for you.'' I replied, smiling, and handed her the dress. Christine slipped her arms out of the dressing gown, and I helped her into the dress, which was drawn back at the hips with a large candy-striped ribbon bow, and fell in flounces down the back. The neck was cut square and slightly low, and edged in a thin flounce of Brussels lace.

Then I drew her hair back, twisting it into a loose knot, and letting some curls fall to brush the nape of her neck. ''There you are, Christine. Your stepbrother's waiting downstairs.''

''And I suppose Father's in his room as usual. He never even comes down to celebrate Christmas anymore.'' she sighed, and hurried downstairs.

As I fixed the bed, I wondered why Christine did not marry Raoul. After all, they were not related. No harm could come from it. They liked each other, too. But it was not something I would dare suggest to Mr Destler. He seemed to have taken an immense disliking to the boy, and I feared the boy would go the way of his mother. So I had taken to giving small bowls of the tea to the cat. If something went wrong, I knew the tea was poisoned. But so far, it had gone well, and our cat still lived.

''Meg, come quickly!'' Christine's voice came from downstairs, and I left the room, hurrying to the parlor.

''Has anything happened?'' I questioned, a little worriedly.

She shook her head, smiled, and pulled a small package from behind her back. ''For you. I wanted to give you something.'' I took the package from her hands, and slowly unwrapped it. Inside lay a locket of hammered silver, shaped like a heart with a small sapphire set in the center. ''Do you like it, Meg?'' she asked hopefully.

''Thank you. It's beautiful. '' And I lifted it and clasped it 'round my neck.

''There. See?'' Christine smiled at Raoul. ''I told you it would suit her.''

* * *

I laughed, and said, ''Well, I wanted to give her a kitten.'' The two girls burst into laughter, and Christine pulled me aside, with one little look at the staircase. We went round, until Christine pulled me into a closet.

''Why did you bring me here?'' I questioned softly. She was so very close to me at the moment.

''I know it isn't proper, considering that we're alone, but will you kiss me?'' she asked, and unable to refuse her, I did kiss her. She came up to my chin, and I needed only to tilt my head down to reach her mouth.

She wound her arms around my neck, and I wove my hands into her hair. Well, what I could of it, considering most of it was tightly wound up.

When we pulled away, Christine revealed that she'd asked her father to find her a match, but that had been four months ago, and he had still not found one. ''I would so very much like to be married, but my father must keep his word.''

''Well, if a ball is thrown, perhaps you will meet someone.'' I said, not wanting to tell her what I felt for her.

She looked at me with wide dark eyes. ''And if I do? What will become of you? Raoul, will you promise me something?''

''Anything.''

''Then, promise to take me away from here by my eighteenth birthday. We can-we could be married. And Meg and her mother could come with us. Meg is our friend. I could not leave her behind if we were to go.''

And so I promised her. I would have given her anything she asked for.

* * *

Our greatest fear was that Father would find out, and for a time he did not notice anything. Of one thing I was delighted. Father would throw a masked ball-why masked I did not know- upon New Year's Eve, and for that I was overjoyed.

Meg, too, was delighted, and we took great care in planning my costume. The servants would be given the day off and Meg and her mother would be attending the party, as they had no family nor relatives here.

''I think I'll be an angel. Or a swan.'' she said, as we looked over the latest fashion plates.

''Either one suits you.'' I told her. ''But I think a swan suits you better.''

Meg smiled. ''And you?'' I shrugged.

''A rose. You know how much I love them.'' So it was settled. Meg would be a swan in white silk and tulle with feathery wings, and I would be a rose in rosebud pink satin overlaid in blonde lace with spangles embroidered on it, and roses in my hair.

When the day of the ball came, Meg and I ran about helping each other get ready. I fastened the delicate feathered headpiece in Meg's blond hair, and she pulled back the sides of my brown ringlets in an intricate design with pale pink ribbon, and added roses where it was pinned, to hide the pins. Then there were masks, a white one for Meg, a pink one for me.

Madame Giry came as a Japanese lady, and my father, when he escorted me into the ballroom, had come as the Red Death from the tale by Edgar Allan Poe. But where was Raoul? I did not know what his costume was, but I hoped it would match my own.

* * *

''Christine!'' I called out, upon seeing her, and she came over to me.

''A soldier?'' she questioned, looking rather amused.

I shook my head. ''No, I'm a prince.''

''Oh. I came as a rose.''

''Well, perhaps you could be the princess of the roses? That way, we would match.'' I suggested to her, and she nodded, holding out a silk-gloved hand to me so we could dance. I took it, and swept her into a waltz. It was good of my stepfather to throw this ball, mainly because Christine, dear girl, looked so happy. It had been years since I'd seen her this happy.

And I had missed her smile so.

* * *

Raoul and I danced twice, and afterward, I pushed him to dance with Meg, so she would not be left out. At least we were all having fun. Father seemed to be in a good mood, though. Perhaps I could ask him to find me a husband? I did not wish to remain unmarried any longer.

So I went over to him. Father was not one for drinking wine and other liquor, so he stood watching the people dance.

''Hello, Father. Are you enjoying yourself?''

''As well as I can.'' he sighed. At first he did not look at me, but when he did, there was something in his eyes that I did not like at all. They roamed over my face for a time, then down to my neck, and finally over the edge of my neckline and the creamy flesh exposed by it. His eyes remained there for a time, and I could see his hands clench slightly.

Raoul did not look at me that way in public, and he was only related to me by marriage.

Finally, his eyes moved away, and he asked me to dance. I accepted, and we danced a polka together. Finally, I asked, ''Father, I must ask you, when will you find me a husband?''

He shook his head. ''My dear daughter, marriage is the worst sort of torture imaginable. I cannot fathom why you should wish to bring it upon yourself!''

''Father, you and Mama, it was a happy marriage. Why should I not have the same happiness that you had together?''

''My marriage to your mother was a rarity. People are rarely happy in marriage. Besides, I have better plans for you then marriage. You shall be my muse, and sing in my operas.''

I was shocked at this. Father was a brilliant composer, and had taught me how to play the piano, but he, of all people, knew that I could not sing a note when it came to opera! And I told him so. He merely shrugged it off, though. It seemed my protestations would be in vain, and that night, before I went to bed, I was awoken by a sound. I did not know what it was, and quickly slipped out of bed, pulling on a wrapper of maroon silk over my nightgown.

''Is anyone there?'' I called out softly, slipping out onto the balcony, for that was where the sound had come from. At first I could see no one, but a shadow appeared behind me, and I turned to see who it was.

It was Raoul, dressed only in a loose shirt and his trousers.

''What are you doing here?'' I whispered. ''You know you should not be in my room, or even upon my balcony, at this hour.''

''I am sorry. Something happened to me tonight. I cannot understand it-perhaps it has been inside me all this time, ever since we first kissed, but my heart insisted that I come here at this hour, even though it may be indecent.'' he said to me, eyes holding a wistful expression.

The expression that I saw seemed more sincere then the smiles that my father gave me, and I asked Raoul, what did he want to say?

* * *

''I wish-I wish-'' I stammered. I knew what I wanted to say to dear, sweet Christine, but I could not put it into words. ''I wish to marry you.''

Christine stared at me for a moment. ''You would?''

''We are not related. My mother never had a child by your father. It is possible for us.'' I said, twisting my hands together.

''I wish nothing more to be married, but Father seems intent on keeping me in this house for the rest of my life. If I hear one more word from Father about marriage and its' faults, I shall scream.'' she exclaimed quietly. Poor Christine. I wished nothing more then to take her out of this house so she could live her days in peace, light, and freedom, and if I married her, I could do that.

I stepped forward to kiss her, and kiss her I did, and she embraced me wholeheartedly. ''I can picture it.'' she sighed as she pulled away.

''Picture what?''

''If we were married right now. I imagine we would have come up here after putting the children to bed, and we'd be viewing the stars.'' I had to laugh quietly at that, and thought to myself, _I will make Christine the happiest girl in the world._


	5. Chapter 5

The next day, Father insisted that I begin rehearsal for his opera. Reading through the score to learn my part, I could see that Don Juan Triumphant was a dramatic opera, told in three acts.

Aminta, the character Father requested I play, was a intriguing person. She was innocent, but at the same time, almost knowing. She was a gypsy, daughter of the chieftain, and had just reached the same age as me by the time of the story.

Of course, there were downsides to the tale. I found it shocking that Aminta would allow herself to be taken in so easily by this Don Juan, and even profess her love for him! It was terribly disturbing, the seduction scene which Father considered his finest piece.

It was one thing to hint of the affairs of the bedroom on stage, it was another to speak outright of the deed itself. The duet would surely be a scandal in itself, if the rest of the opera was anything to go by.

Even Meg thought it was dreadful when I told her about it after rehearsals.

''Oh, Christine, this is awful!'' she exclaimed, as I read her the script. ''How could your father force you to sing this?''

''I don't know.'' I said. ''What am I to do? What would Mama have done, or Jaccqueline?'' Speaking of Jaccqueline made me miss her, and I changed into a black mourning dress to visit her grave. Only Meg knew where I had gone.

So I took a carriage to the graveyard, and the sky that day was dark and gloomy to match my mood. I paid the driver, and stepped out, wandering among the gravestones till I came to Jaccqueline's. I knelt just then, and placed a bouquet of lilies, her favorite flowers, at the stone that bore her name and dates of birth and death.

The poor woman. All set to be happy. And she had had the most tragic life.

As I stood up, and turned to leave, a flash of black seemed to pass by behind the graves. ''Is anyone there?'' I called out. But I received no answer. I stepped closer to where I'd seen the flash of black, and I was grabbed from behind, so I screamed, and turned around, pushing my would-be attacker to the floor. Well, attempting to.

When I turned, I could see that it was my father. ''Father, what are you doing here?'' I questioned. ''I told no one where I had gone, except dear Meg.''

''Why? So that you might meet a lover?'' he exclaimed furiously.

I shook my head. ''Oh, no! I came to visit my stepmother's grave!'' He stared at me, and I pulled my cloak tighter about me.

He reached out, touched my face in a sort of caress, and undid my cloak. ''Father, shouldn't we go home?'' I asked, draping my undone cloak like a shawl about my arms. ''The carriage is waiting.''

Father did not seem to hear me, though, and muttered ''Theodorine.'' Then he leaned closer, as if he were about to kiss me. I stepped back, so that he did not, but he grabbed me by the arms quite tightly, tightly enough to leave bruises, and pressed his lips to mine, in a harsh and demanding manner.

I was horrified.

How could he do such a thing? To his own daughter! I struggled to pull away, and when I did, slapped him across his face. ''Have you no shame? I am your own daughter!'' Turning away from him, I hurried back to the carriage, telling the driver to return home.

I did not look back at my father, and upon returning home, I went to take a warm bath, for my father's touch was ice-cold, and had chilled me to the bone.

''What did he do to you, Christine?'' Meg asked, upon seeing the bruises Father had left upon my arms.

''He kissed me. I still cannot believe it. I think he would have done more had I not slapped him.'' I said, touching the dark bruises lightly.

Meg placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. ''Thank God long sleeves are the fashion nowadays. They'll hide these.''

* * *

My stepfather did his best to keep Christine away from me, but we found ways to speak, to talk. One day, she came into my room, and asked if we might leave this place.

''Why? Has something happened?''

She shrugged. ''In a way.''

''Has he done something to you?'' I pressed, striding towards her and grabbing her arms. She winced, and stepping back, I pushed up the long sleeve of her blouse and saw, to my horror, several bruises on her arm.

''Good God, what did he do to you?'' I exclaimed.

The dear girl stepped back from me, and tugged her sleeve down. ''Raoul, it is nothing. Do not bother yourself.''

''I must know.''

''Alright.'' she sighed. ''Father, he- he tried to assault me.''

Oh, poor Christine. What on earth had gotten into her father's head?

''You see why I want to leave?'' she said softly. ''Can we just go? Take Meg and go? We could leave tonight.''

''What if your father finds out?''

''There are things. To make someone sleep for a time.''

It was then that we began to put together a plan, with Meg's assistance. On the night of the premiere, we'd leave the house, and go somewhere her father would never find us.

I took to sleeping outside Christine's door, in an effort to protect her from his advances.

One night, as I was doing so, she opened the door to bid me good-night. She wore only her nightgown, with a dark shawl over her shoulders, and her dark hair loose around her face.

''Won't you come inside?'' she asked softly.

I shook my head. ''No. I couldn't.''

''Please. I'd like you to.'' she said softly, holding out her hand. I couldn't say no, so I took her small hand and she closed the door behind us.

She pulled the shawl slowly off her arms, and placed it on her vanity table, and then wrapped her arms about herself.

I stepped towards her. ''What do you want, to have me in your room at this time of night?''

''You.'' She gazed at me, wide brown eyes asking for something.

I shook my head, stepping back and resting against the door. ''We shouldn't.''

Christine came towards me, taking hold of my shirt. ''Please.'' And she pulled me down to kiss her.

* * *

He kissed me, gentle and sweet, and pulled me into his arms. Instantly, I felt loved, and wanted, and happy.

Pulling away, I gently pulled him back until my legs hit the bed, and he looked at me with concern in his eyes. ''Are you sure? Tell me if you really want this, please.''

''How many times must I tell you? Of course I want this. I want _you._ '' I said to him, and he leant downward to kiss me again.

''If your father finds us- sees us- I'll be dead.'' he murmured, before setting his mouth to the tip of my ear.

I giggled. ''That tickles.''

He smiled at me, and moved his lips to my collarbone, sucking at it for some time, and then he yanked my nightgown up over my head and dropped it on the floor. I instantly grabbed my shawl off the table, for the night air was cold, and wrapped it around myself, causing him to laugh quietly.

Raoul reached out, and tugged the shawl away from me. ''I'll warm you if you like.'' he teased, staring at me admiringly.

And oh, he did. Scooping me up in his arms and placing me on the bed, climbing on top of me, and touching me where I'd never been touched before by any man, not even myself.

He kissed me on my shoulder, on my breasts, and then he touched me.

He put his hand in between my legs, stroking hesitantly at the folds there and then put his mouth on them,which caused me to moan, and I had to put a hand over my mouth.

''Shall I stop?''

''Oh, _no._ '' I whispered, pulling his head back down to kiss me _there_ again. And then he put his tongue in me and- _Ohh._

When we finished, he pulled me close to him, and kissed the top of my head. ''I ought to go. I don't want your father to catch me after all.'' He got off the bed, and tossed me my nightgown, and I pulled it over my head.

''Good night.'' I watched him go, and shut the door behind him.

And with that, I settled down to what I hoped would be a pleasant night, no nightmares. And indeed it was.

* * *

Christine and I had quite a few encounters of a similar sort every now and then, kisses stolen in the hallways or something of the sort. Now that our plan had been put in place, we needed only to wait for the opportune moment, and then Christine, Meg, and I would leave, probably going to St Louis, or New York.

We didn't expect my stepfather to find out about our plans. We'd done our best to keep them secret.

But he did find out, and was furious. I could hear him berating Christine, poor thing, for an hour, and then it was my turn. I was amazed he still considered me a part of the family as it was.

''Of all the things! You ought to know better then this!'' he exclaimed, pacing the room like a madman.

''Excuse me, sir, but Christine simply isn't happy here. She wants to leave. She asked me to take her away from here.'' I said, in protest.

He gave a short laugh, shaking his head. ''How could she not be happy here, with a father who loves her, who wants to make her a star?''

''She told me what happened in the graveyard.'' _And if I'm not mistaken_ , I wanted to say, _you called her by her mother's name._ But I did not say that. ''What sort of man tries to kiss his own daughter? And not in the sort of way he ought to!''

My stepfather glared at me in fury. ''Do not say that again!'' he growled, somewhat like a bear.

''Well, that's what she told me you did! And I do not think my stepsister would lie.'' I replied, stepping back in hopes that he would not hit me. I had seen what he could do-the evidence lay on Christine's arms.

He continued glaring at me for a few moments, then nodded to himself, and headed for the door. ''Do not think to touch her again.'' he ordered.

''Why? So you can touch her as you should not? She only comes to me for comfort. Nothing else.''


	6. Chapter 6

The performance day arrived, and I helped Christine get ready in the theater that her father would be using for the performance. The first costume she was to wear was a flounced black dress with belled sleeves and a calf-length skirt layered in tiers, and her hair fell round her shoulders in curls, with two red roses braided into the side of her hair. She would be barefoot for the whole opera, but she didn't mind.

''There you are.'' I smiled, and patted her shoulder.

She smiled at me, a soft, sad little smile, and walked out of her dressing-room to the back of the stage.

I hoped everything would go right tonight. It had to, for Raoul and Christine.

* * *

I stood at the edge of the stage, waiting for my cue. Watching the ballerinas who Father had hired to be the corps, I could see that the choreography was nice, but there was something about it which gave me the shivers.

Finally, it was my cue, and I stepped onstage and began to sing.

Raoul stood at the side of the stage, where I had once stood, and smiled at me when I turned to look back at him. His presence gave me strength, and I knew that tonight we would leave.

When the first scene had ended, I headed off-stage, to change, and he grasped my hand reassuringly. ''It shall be all right, darling.'' he whispered, and I reached up to touch his cheek.

''I love you.''

Then I hurried off to my dressing-room, and changed into the white chemise and ruffled gold skirt, with a dark gold voile scarf tied about the hips. I left my hair in its' style, and returned to the stage, and Meg hurried after me, holding my shawl, a black silk embroidered with golden roses.

I thanked her profusely, and wrapped the shawl about my shoulders.

When it was time, I stepped onstage once more, singing the opening line that led into the duet. Looking back at the side of the stage, I could see Raoul and Meg, but when I looked up at Box 5, I could not see my father, even though he had said he would be there.

I couldn't imagine where he was.

* * *

Watching from the side of the stage, I could see a figure draped in black, which I assumed was the tenor playing Don Juan. I watched Christine step on stage, remove her scarf, and begin to sing. She sounded like an angel.

She looked at the other side of the stage, and the figure draped in black came onstage. The figure began to sing, and I realized that it was not the tenor, but my stepfather, who's voice I had heard only once, but I would have known it anywhere.

They sang, still, and Christine's dear face looked terrified. Did she fear he would do something to her? To me? I hoped not, hoped that everything would go as planned.

As time passed, as the song passed, it soon proved not to be, and just before the kiss which marked the end of the first act, Christine fled the stage, grabbing me by the hand.

''We must go, now!'' she whispered, and I followed her.

* * *

I pulled Raoul by the hand, tugging him away from the stage, and hurried to Father's carriage, Meg following us.

''Christine, the tenor!'' she called out.

''What?'' Raoul questioned, looking at her. ''What happened to him?''

Her face was white.

''He's dead. Strangled.''


End file.
